Chapter Five

Beatnik writing crap: So we soar on, songs of mad glad melodies, in rhythm and time to crash all maladies against the rocks along shores; constraint is no witness to my flesh and mind, all that is mine will be gladly gulped and glow out a light, I am here, I am somewhere, I am nowhere, I am somebody loved, somebody, god please, love me; desperation reeks we seek out things greater, god please someone come find me I might be drowning I just want to breath. We all have needs; I wish you would touch me, she said begging with her eyes; I want to love, god destroy these dams, damn it, I’m afraid of wanting to die; please come rescue me, wild sailors, set out to sea, to go and do and to see, to be good you first must feel free.

I’ll not tell of the road trip in exactly chronological order. I don’t want this to be like a travelogue list: we did this and then we did that and here’s the picture slideshow; that type of thing. Time and memory are strange, in how time passes chronologically, hour by hour, day by day, but memory exists in this realm of light splashes stored in brain neuron sparks; they exist only as impressionist abstract paintings of once solid concrete things. It is through memory that our impressions of experiences are transformed into art. They can bend, as light can bend, can become distorted, like images seen through a filter of water. They fade through time, like the how guts of one bug splat on a windshield becomes indistinguishable from the preceding bug gut splats which covers it ; we become buried under fresher memories as pictures fade by continual light exposure over time.

Okay, so that’s sort of deep, right? Or…I’m just trying to be some weird philosopher up there or something. I have a bad habit of trying to use tortured metaphors to try and explain my complex and abstract thoughts, which probably aren’t even that complex or abstract, just that I don’t know how to explain them simply and concretely. I’m re-reading this file now, about two years after I wrote it, to fix typos and stuff, and I just read that paragraph above, and although I wrote it just two years ago, my response to that paragraph is still mostly huh? Okay, but then I get weirder and way more out there for the next three long paragraphs, musing about time and memories and junk. A good editor would delete it all. But I’ll keep it (because maybe if someone is reading this while stoned, that’d be all like whoa and might enjoy it or something) but add this disclaimer here: feel free to skip over these three following paragraphs. If you do read it, feel free to laugh at the tortured attempt at philosophizing and trying to explain the relativity of time and experience. And what we do with time; time as a current and a currency. Oh man, I’m in danger right now of falling over the edge into huh-what? territory again. I think the point I was trying to make was, those two weeks on the road were like… a big deal. Anyways…

But our experiences, our memories define us and make us who we are, sometimes consciously in that learning through our mistakes and experience ways, but more so subconsciously, in that way a abuser abuses because he was abused, and that disgusting experience, those unpleasant memories seep into his identity and colored his understanding of how to view the world and the way to view and value people; we learn how to treat others by how we’ve been treated, good or bad. Our actions or inactions define us, make us, then become memories, cherished through the soft haze of nostalgia and recalled in moments of pleasant reflection when one wants to feel warm and glad over the past, or they exist as things wished to be forgotten but cling on as scars or ugly tattoos branded onto the brain, until a deteriorating brain inflicted with an old age disease siphons them all out into the ether of never existence and the patient becomes a different person with a different personality, then reverts to being like a baby again, with zero memory beyond whatever happened twelve seconds ago, then like a vegetable, then comes death.

The most vivid memories of the times that meant the most to us; those rise to the top and may take on various forms and impressions and meaning over time but are the last to fade; that which lingers most vivid are a lot of “first time” memories: first crush, first kiss, first whatever meant something a lot at the time, even if with added perspective through time this thing may not have been consequential or really meaningful at all.

Time is strange too, how two years can pass of what feels like a total waste; a string of pointless nothingness happenings, and then just two weeks can pass and contain in them seemingly every monumental important thing to have ever happened; everything important in life that happened up to that point. Then when your mom asks how those two weeks were, all you can answer back to her is “fine.” Then two weeks pass after that and how strange, how through monumental events, when life seemingly hadn’t started before then, can feel simultaneously like something that happened so long ago, like a reincarnated life ago, yet also as something that will feel like it all happened just yesterday, for years to come; then a decade slips away into the past and you wonder how that could have been, as time loses preciousness the longer it goes on. I’m also struck by how, in all the seconds that make up the amount of time one will live, just one second has the potential to change everything in dramatic ways; the most extreme example being the second it takes to pull a gun trigger; but also yes and no are words that take just a second or less to utter; and then to take it further, if there’s any truth to the religious tenant that your eternity, for good or bad, heaven or hell, is determined by your actions during life, then just one second has the ability to determine all of eternity.

Anyways, what do I know, really? Nothing. Just guessing at it all.

A day before we were to set off into the voyage over this teenage wasteland, as land pirates in our ship of steel and wheels set off for far off adventures in search of treasures to plunder and mysteries to uncover, I was invited to a shin-dig they called it, at Seth-Rem’s place to pow-wow and plan and wash the rented church bus which would be our ship for the next two weeks. I didn’t want to go. Too anxious over all the awkwardness and out of place discomfort and inner turmoil twisting it would cause me, this little mouse, to intermix with them, these lions of beauty and character and living. I still had a crush on Seth-Rem, but it had always been a distant crush; distances are safe, and the thought of being close to him, subject myself to potential humiliation just by being my stupid little self, mortified me to the point where I didn’t want to go, didn’t want to do anything, just hide and die, dull but safe; unknown by him, by them, yet when unknown they can’t form terrible negative opinions about me; I can’t disappoint myself by disappointing them.

Why don’t I just die then, if I just want to play it safe by turning invisible, not engaging with the world? Those horrible I don’t want to embarrass myself by living type of thoughts are horrible and come from a negative place of self hatred. Rationally, I knew I was being a way I didn’t want to be. A girl wracked by fear. Afraid of chances, afraid of people, afraid of life. That’s a road to misery, death, muted colors. Boldness, bravery, brightness; this is the way to be. Not care so much what they, the others, think; do what you wish in expressing yourself and making your own claims over yourself; push against, be brash, strong, proud, not be pushed on, shoved down, cowering, sinking. Rationally, intellectually, I knew the way I wanted to be; a girl not afraid to go to shin-digs with the cooler older college kids: I do belong; after all, they invited me.

But emotion blunts your intellect and rational; I couldn’t help but be nervous and not even in the good nervous way like before a date with a guy you like (is that a “good” type of nervousness? I don’t know; like the good type of excited nervousness right before you’re strapped into the seat of a roller coaster) but the bad nervousness that makes one physically ill; what if I threw up all over Candice’s and Seth-Rem’s shoes?

Then there’s the matter that Candice wrote for me to bring along my own friend, but I didn’t have a friend to bring. Not with Tess having dumped me. How long before they simply toss me out for being the biggest smelliest loser on the planet? I can’t ride with them. They can’t be seen with me.

I decided I simply had to pretend to be a different person, in order to deal with this, cope with being where I don’t belong with this crew; fake it till you make it, as the cliché goes. Not to be fake, really, in that obvious way everyone hates; they could sniff out that act quickly and mark me as even more of a lame loser than I really am; I don’t mean make up brag-y lies about how cool and wanted I am with my high school peers; try to impress with fake stats on how many boys I’ve kissed at concerts I snuck out to attend and all that dumb weird stuff that super insecure people will lie about in their desperate attempts to be liked, which always backfires, because lies and desperation has its own pungent odor; I just mean a simple case of reinvention; a mental makeover; more of a brave, wild, up for it fun girl, rather than this cowering knee shaking painfully introverted self pitying girl I really am. I’d try anyways, I decided.

Jan had a great closet. I hadn’t dared raid it yet. Would it be weird if I wore some of her cloths on this road trip? I was told to pack light. Don’t worry, we’ll all stink together. Bring a bathing suit.

I decided to wear one of Jan’s floral skirts to the pre road trip shin-dig at Seth-Rem’s house. The only reason I’d been invited was because of Jan. If they all hated me but then were reminded that they were doing this as a charity for me because of Jan, by recognizing one of Jan’s skirts or shirts or head bands on me, then maybe they’d at least be nice to me. No, I knew they’d be nice to me; I wasn’t really worried about that. I knew my fear was baseless and irrational; unwarranted. Yet still on the drive to Seth-Rem’s (driven by my dad on a Saturday afternoon, another mortifying thing; all of them had their own cars; I didn’t have my driver’s license, but they knew this, or Candice knew it anyways; I told her in an e-mail and she wrote back, not a problem; I said I’d be willing to drive some anyways; I could handle a stretch of highway; I didn’t want to be a complete leech; I wanted to help out) I sort of wished I were a marijuana smoker and smoked a blunt to help calm my nerves (or actually I guess pot makes one more nervous, paranoid and jittery, so never mind?)

Seth-Rem lives in this two story upper class house (or his parents house where he’s momentarily staying at before going back to college) in this hilly woodsy neighborhood, although most of the greater Seattle area could be described as woodsy.

I said by to my dad in a meek high pitched voice and stepped out of the car and there they were, there that noise, that scene was. It felt like I stood in front of a giant movie screen with some music montage meant to express the coolness, sexiness, fun of playful youth, free youth, of these nineteen, twenty, twenty one year olds, but with the new un-tethered independence which is granted with high school graduation and freshman year of college behind them; those type of sorority and frat house party kids, free of college at the moment, back home, back together, playing, laughing, washing a van, laughing and shrieking at the little impromptu water fights, squeezing water from sponges over heads and backs as the sun baked body tightness at the sensation of water droplets on skin. I was late, they had started without me. My dad drove off and I felt stuck, almost abandoned, as if I belonged in that car he drove away in and I was left behind and I almost felt like I wanted to cry the way a little girl accidently left behind in some highway rest stop during some family vacation excursion would cry. I couldn’t take a step forwards towards them any more than I could step through a movie screen into the movie.

I didn’t recognize the song blaring but I liked it; some cool jangly guitar rock pop song, some menacing minor chords followed by faster bursts of power chords while some gravel voiced guy mumble sang something yelled rhythmically along; some collage rock radio indie song that kept itself secret from those un-cool, unworthy outside to hear it, I guessed. That song ended and another one I didn’t recognize followed, something sounding like a fresh spin on a retro biker song; a long beach biker gang because this song had this surf rock vibe to it; sounding like some song belonging in some as yet filmed Quinton Tarantino movie about a Long Beach biker gang; the song had a hint of violence and romance and catharsis unleashed in it, but jaunty and danceable and awesome and made me think how lame am I to not have ever heard this song before; not even know something so good had ever existed; yet I felt too ashamed to ask what the song was although I think it may have been ‘The Ravonettes”.

Later they’d play “Girl Afraid” by The Smiths and some Galaxy 500 song. They seemed to all know each song playing and as nice as it is to hear a good new song it’s better to hear a song in that space when it’s still fresh enough to sound revealingly new and surprising, yet familiar enough that you’ve found a type of relationship with it, where you can anticipate a tempo change to shift the body accordingly or know when some random but wonderful weird lyric will burst out and you know when to shout along with it, you and your friends, and doing so pumps out some laughter because of some apparent simple yet satisfactory inside joke involving that lyric and that song; all of them seemed to be in that right balance of new and familiar in respect to those songs. There were also some funk R&B and techno rap songs, as well as that old car wash song which I think was included as an effective, it turned out, joke.

Turns out the music was a car-wash mix made by Leena because of course there should be a mix-playlist to soundtrack every moment in life now, if that moment should be elevated from mundane function into something more of an event anyways. But why did she include Girl Afraid? Was that a reference to me?

I only half recognized these people, Jan’s friends. They all seemed pretty “big” to me, in my younger sister adoring eyes, seeing in Jan and them a future I hoped to one day grow into, but their change, their new “bigness” to my still a high school scrub little eyes seemed even more pronounced, like they all belonged in the glossy pages of some Ralph Lauren catalog, whereas I would appear in the kids section of a JC Penny flyer; like they were those types of gorgeous twenty something year old actors who will star in teenager party movies, yet it’s so obvious how mature, in the best way, they are when placed against an actual real teenager.

Especially Leena. She was kind of in Jan’s group of cool friends but not totally immersed, and once I mentally identified her I was a little surprised she was included, although looking at her it’s obvious why they’d want to include her, especially the boys. The first thought that popped in my head upon seeing her was obscene, and then wow, she’s gorgeous; I can’t compete with her, no fair, which thought sort of rocked me back because I knew there was zero chance of making Seth-Rem fall in love with me during this trip or that I’d have to compete with anyone to win him, or anything dumb like that. But like I already said, emotions trump rational reasonable thought and of course I couldn’t help certain fantasies involving Seth-Rem and I from creeping in ever since that Candice invite e-mail popped up on my screen.

Anyways, Leena wore a lime colored bikini top and short American flag shorts and I think she had breast enhancement since I last saw her because they were pretty big without being grotesque big, but maybe they were natural because they seemed to have a natural bounce and look. Her hair was fake though; she had been a dark umber-red but now she was a strawberry red. But maybe that was natural too, a natural change with the seasons thing due to more sun exposure. She looked like a playboy playmate to me and the weird thought passed my mind that too bad I’m not a boy because a straight boy would really enjoy looking at her right now; might even spring a boner over it. Then I did a quick scan for Seth-Rem and spotted him and I gasped and did a hard swallow in seemingly one moment. He had his shirt off and looked good, tight, bare, muscular, tanned, and wore sunglasses and a visor and this goofy half smile and sure enough he was locked onto Leena; hard to tell where exactly he was looking because of the Ray-Bans over his eyes but I felt pretty confident his gaze went directly into Leena’s all exposed nearly full circle all the way on both sides cleavage. Bouncing freely.

I couldn’t help it; my gaze glanced down to his groin area, he wore long red and white stripped shorts which stopped just above his knee, to see if he had a boner or not. I couldn’t tell. Probably not though; that’s a dumb thought and dumb thing to think about anyways, I thought, but the dumb thoughts came anyways, like why do guys like big boobs anyways and it’d be uncomfortable to have boobs that big; hurt the back and just be cumbersome, although she seems to wear them, the weight well, seems to be moving fine and oh my gawd, why am I thinking so much about boobs: I’m a hypocrite, I think boys are dumb for obsessing over boobs but here I am doing the same thing, boobs, boobs, boobs, and I sort of wish my boobs were a little bigger. I have weird boobs. I don’t like them. Would I ever get a boob job? Although if self esteem is tied to boobs, that doesn’t seem quite right and it’s all so superficial, we’re all so superficial and I wonder if I’ll have to wear my swimsuit in front of all of them at some point. Probably. In the Yellowstone river and at hotel pools and stuff. I shouldn’t be self conscious. And I wonder if Seth-Rem will ever look at me the way he’s looking at her, what’s her name, Leena, her hair in the sun sort of looks pink, that’s weird. Although with those sunglasses I can’t really see how he’s looking at her; although I can just tell, he’s devouring her with his eyeballs, giving her the eye ball massage; she looks like she’s had a lot of sex last year and she loved it and it empowered her, transformed her into this pink haired playmate bombshell; Seth-Rem is so handsome, he looks bigger, thicker, it’s not fair, I’m helpless. I wonder if my fantasy had built him up into this thing that he can’t possibly measure up to; wonder if he’ll disappoint me or if reality will be better than fantasy; learn to love what’s in front of you, not what you dream up; I’ve heard that somewhere; maybe something I read in some teen blog.

Those thoughts came rapid fire quick; thoughts are more like pictures then words, in how you can take in the contents of a picture and understand the contents of it in one scanned flash, but to verbally describe the picture would take a longer time; longer still to write or type the descriptions all down. All those thoughts were crammed within the span of maybe six seconds.

It had been maybe twelve seconds or so since my dad dropped me off when I just stood there, gawking like some movie watcher, standing stiff and dumb, half recognizing them. They were obviously too involved in their own scene, their own music video montage they were creating, to notice me, the outsider, standing there, looking in on them, like some voyeur pervert. I was struck by that feeling where you can feel even lonelier when placed with other people, even more so than when alone by yourself.

“Alice!” I heard my name called. It was Candice. She ran towards me, hand waving. She also wore a bikini top, black, but her cleavage wasn’t as grotesque as Leena’s. Mine might be a little bit bigger than hers. Boobs, boobs, boobs. But Candice is still way more gorgeous then me, to the point of intimidation. It’s not just size but proportion; she’s super skinny, but in the still healthy looking non anorexic looking way, which kind of surprised me because I thought college freshmen were supposed to put on fifteen pounds over the year.

It’s true I had seen most of these people in February at Jan’s funeral about three and a half months ago. Yet still they all looked changed, more grown to me. Bouncier and happier, obviously. Long since entered out of the funeral fog, the fumes of which I still coughed on.

“Hey everybody, Alice is here!” Candice declared.

‘Everybody’s’ eyes turned towards me. Candice, Leena, Kang (a half Asian cool dude) Seth-Rem. Strange, when I had first come and did my quick survey it seemed a house full of party revelers had been making all that commotion of movement and noise. But no, just those four people, now with their eight eyes directed at me. Surveying me as I had surveyed them. I tight lipped smiled at them and limply waved hello.

“She’s shy guys,” Candice said. I wish she hadn’t said it. “But we all know each other right?” Candice said. “We all know Alice, she knows us.”

“Hi everybody,” I said awkwardly, standing stiff. Be a different person I said in my mind. But it was too late, the damage done; first impressions (this was basically like my first impression exhibited in front of them despite us all supposedly “knowing each other already”) are formed and solidified in a blink, two seconds, and all their first impressions of me as a awkward quite little loser girl bombed in their laps with my tight lipped stiff initial presentation here of myself, and their first impressions of me just so happens to be accurate.

Despite us all supposedly already knowing each other it was obvious that an ice-breaker, for my behalf, was needed. It came from Kang who snuck behind me and dropped a full bucket of sudsy water over my head, drenching my white tank top, making its wetness cling to my skin when before I was left free to wonder about their boobs and cleavage now they were more disposed to view and judge not my cleavage perhaps but my breast shape anyways. I dumbly had worn a red bra. At the water dump surprise I shirked, they laughed, I laughed then Seth-Rem turned the spray hose at me and I just stood and took it, giggling, feeling pretty great, I’m not sure why; genuinely giggling, not faking it. Leena and Candice and Kang threw some wet sudsy sponges at each other. Seth-Rem came close and gently rubbed his knuckle under my eye and said ‘welcome aboard little sister.’

Then this song came on Pour Some Sugar on Me by Def Leopard, which is this totally awesome cheesy 80’s big hair band song, but it’s actually a really great song, a classic, a great song to scream sing along with in the shower, and I’ve heard, a song that gets a lot of play, still, at strip clubs, and knowing what I’d come to know of Leena, a fitting song on any Leena created playlist.

“We’re already wet, let’s get wild!” she said and she sashayed up to me and delicately took my fingers and raised my hands while backing up like a drunk girl taking her drunk girlfriend onto a dance floor would in a display that would result in them frenching each other in a effort to turn on the muscle head drunk frat boy boyfriends while on Spring Break or something. But I went with it, went with her, up the driveway to this outdoor ‘dance floor’ over the driveway.

How to dance? I don’t know how to dance. I’ve danced-exercised by myself and enjoyed doing so, pretending I’m doing really awesomely in the carefree surrender to the music in such a way that compels others to care free dance join in which leads to everyone having a better time than they otherwise would; and dancing that way really is fun, and would be more fun, I imagine, in a crowd with some bold friends. I’m not sure if in high school dances, proms and such, the barrier of collective social insecurity is able to be shattered and loosened enough for the collective ‘fun from dancing’ experience to happen; everyone too self conscious and people, girls especially, worried about getting sweat stains on their dresses or whatever; or refusing to kick off their heels from worry that they won’t find their heels later, and that type of thing, but if it does happen and people surrendered to the music and a few good bold dancers are there not to show off but at least demonstrate to people where the beat is, and what having a good time looks like, and a few simple moves that work to sort of bring out the sweetness of the songs, like visual manifestations of the songs, and there are some good looking people there too that look pretty amazing dancing next to you, I imagine it’d be a pretty great thing. Everyone just collectively losing their worries and fears and self consciousness and just jumping in, to join in the dancing.

I can only imagine. I guess one of the allures of booze is that it dulls inhibitions and loosens up joints and nerves and makes people look more appealing than they really are (the beer goggles thing) but the downside is it makes you sick and sloppy and you’ll forget it all anyways, so it seems it’d be better and more pure to dance without the help of any artificial stimulations. But maybe not.

Funny, there’s a few “dancing with myself” themed dance songs; the Robin song, that 80’s English punk-pop song, some others, and each one is pretty good, but the underlying theme of each song is trying to dance away sadness from being alone, and there being a sort of pitying melancholy dancing by oneself which will manifest like thunder once the song ends and the stifling silence follows, but for me, I have no problem dancing by myself; it’s really the only time I can, and have, danced at all, and it’s a good thing to dance. To feel something outside yourself enter into yourself and respond to the stimulus in a physical way. Dancing sort of sounds similar to sex, when thought of that way.

Anyways, dancing in public, outside, with no real dance mood causing ambiance (darkness and strobe lights and streams and disco balls and a punch bowl and cookies and those types of things) is a whole different proposition. But, the “new me” the “me I wanted to be” was someone who “danced like no one is watching”. But it turns out, the only to dance to “Pour some sugar on me” in a way that really gets into it, if you’re a girl with longish hair, is to flip your hair back and forth while writhing your body like a stripper. It works especially well with wet hair. Leena demonstrated how to do it. And watching her do it, it becomes just so obvious how really that is the only way for a girl to “dance” to that song. I tried to copy her and Candice, who was also doing it but it didn’t work as well because of her short hair.

I felt kind of dumb, knowing I didn’t look anywhere near as sexy as Leena, who just oozes sex when she moves; she has this special supernatural innate skill in that way. I felt like a spud potato next to her, this licking flame, despite me trying to do the same type of dance she was, but I began to enjoy myself anyways, giggling at just the thought of trying to dance sexy to this sexy striper song while my crush watched; the sensation tickled me in a dumb sort of erotic way also, although I knew I looked foolish. But in order to have any fun, to feel any good at all sometimes you have to let go of caring too hard and not worry in the moment about embarrassing yourself.

The only way for guys to dance to “Pour Some Sugar On Me” is to basically just fist pump while yell-singing along, which is what Seth-Rem and Kang were doing. And in that way that song requires you to dance without really dancing, and it works as a great entry point into more full fledged dancing, because it’s a song you can’t half commit to, if you’re going to participate with it, but full commitment with the song still does require going into that full on dance till you sweat mode.

So going through that song was fun, but then the next song on the playlist (or maybe it was just Leena’s i-pod on shuffle mode) was Guns’N Roses “Paradise City” which, as soon as it blared out became obvious that it’s the perfect song to play after “Pour Some Sugar On Me”; like, the rock song takes a potent cocaine hit and just goes aggressively rambunctious all over the place. We all ended up doing our Axel Rose snake slither dance imitations, sort of having an improvised Axel Rose impression contest, which came down to Seth-Rem and Kang doing their snake dances at each other in way that almost looked hilariously homo-erotic.

Then the Beasti Boys “Flute Loop” song came next, which I later found out the name of by a later Google search: “You can’t! You won’t! You don’t stop!” That Google search, two days before the start of the Road Trip, led me down a vortex of streaming Beasti Boys YouTube videos and concert footage (Sabotage! Nathanial Hornblower invented all the Star Wars!). I hadn’t ever really heard much of them, and I was impressed, I began to “get” them, meaning, understanding why they were a big thing at one point, representing youth hipster cool and mainstream noise both. Adam Youch, the gravelly voiced one, recently died. Their Scotland concert is amazing. So much energy, right out the gate, never wavering, super funky.

That sonic journey then somehow led down a “White Stripes” YouTube hole, video’s and concert footage, and it‘s interesting how raw and sort of gore-y Jack and his music could be, in a sort of screaming sexy way (Jack the ripper!) but also cleverly simple and sweet (We’re going to be friends). It all left me feeling deliciously beat up with soaring exhilaration, sort of as if I were in those mosh pits being thrown around, or in the room as something profoundly beautifully eccentric and artistic were being created, manifest in songs, talent, lyrics, playing, yet in this detached vicarious way, of course, since although it felt like something deeper than just a girl spending time over her laptop, that’s all that was really going on in reality. And afterwards, after, like, five or something hours of Beasti Boys and White Stripes, feeling blasted out and like I had experienced and learned something, like, I was tired but too compelled to be able to sleep, compelled to keep going, down this discovery hole, more songs, concert footage, videos, more beauty, feelings, I closed the laptop and it all just sort of disappeared, like, I’m glad I had that experience, but what does it mean, does it change anything, and in the silence the answer is no, but you enjoyed spending that time, and that’s a conquest in life, to just find ways to enjoy the passing time, and you were able to do that for a few hours, so go ahead and be pleased by that, although by the end it’s all just meaningless vapor and nothing significant has really changed, although it felt as if it might.

Anyways, back at the van wash, that “Flute Loop” song (the mix hit a 80’s music vein) sounded so good, so funky, it made me immediately think ‘why don’t they make music like this anymore? Or if they do, why can’t music like this, like that, become popular anymore?’ That song when I first came that I didn’t recognize was probably a recent song, but it’ll never be played on the radio. I’ll probably never hear it again. I don’t know what or who it was.

Kang ran into the garage and ran back out carrying a paint can he placed next to the Christian mini-bus Seth-Rem rented. Kang opened the paint can, dumped his hand into it and slapped his tan paint covered hand over the cross on the tour bus.

“Agh! What are you doing?” Seth-Rem yelled.

“Dude, we can’t go wrecking havoc across the country in a Baptist bus!” Kang replied.

“It looks like someone diarrhea’d all over it!” Seth-Rem joked. He then picked up the hose, a water gun nozzle screwed on, and sprayed over where Kang had slapped the paint. Seth-Rem wasn’t legitimate angry though; it all had a sense of play.

“I’m with Kang” Candice declared. “Our party bus can’t be a Baptist bus.” Candice dipped her hand in the paint and left a handprint on the bus door. Then Leena did the same.

“I’m renting this! They’ll crucify me. We’ll all go to hell,” Seth-Rem said.

“I’m with Seth,” Leena said, although her actions had already betrayed her words. “He’s cute when he’s mad.”

The four then engaged in a battle over Candice and Kang trying to paint the van while Seth-Rem and Leena fought to wash the paint off, while the rest of “Flute loop” and then some other cool sounding song played, some jangly guitar song I didn’t recognize, as I became, again, the outside observer. But I didn’t mind. It was highly amusing watching them, being so close to them and this great show, wet, still feeling as this might already be the most fun I’ve had in my life, as pathetic as it is to admit that.

The fight ended when there wasn’t any more paint. Seth-Rem and Leena had mostly won; the van was already wet enough that the paint didn’t stick real well. The four looked at each other, each made messy with light brown paint and water, then they laughed. Leena approached Seth-Rem and rubbed residue paint on her hands onto Seth-Rem’s shoulders and chest; something she did as a playful gesture but it quickly and quite obviously became a type of sexual thing she engaged in, a excuse to take advantage of feeling the crevices of his well defined muscles. ‘She’s a genius’ I thought. So that happened and we all felt a little bit awkward about it, witnessing this innocent flirty gesture boil over into this sizzling sexual thing that may have escalated into some serious body grinding were it not for being out in public with us staring at them.

Kang broke the awkwardness by holding his hands out in “boob grab” formation, wet watery paint dripping from his fingertips, and walking towards Candice. Candice jumped back and yelled “nice try Kang! I don’t think so!” Then Kang spun around and with his arms out lurched towards me like some lust zombie wanting to squeeze my boobs. In retrospect I guess it was a gross thing, maybe even a sexual harassment type thing, but I giggled, assuming he were just joking and wasn’t really going to grab me.

“Kang, she’s a child! Stop!” Candice yelled. She didn’t call me “child” to be mean; they were all just joking. I didn’t take any offense. Besides, I already knew that’s how they saw me; besides, she was right, I am a child compared with them. I’m under eighteen, they’re over eighteen. My parents are really okay with this? The “child” statement only slightly stung later that night while I lay in bed. I wished I could be seen as equal to them. I’m not really a “child”. I may be inexperienced compared with them; may be a loser, but I’m not a “child”.

After the laughs died down, Kang said “but, no, seriously, we can’t ride around in that with it looking like that. I mean, not anything pertinent, but…”

“I’m not afraid to proclaim my Jesus love,” Leena said.

“I’m with Kang,” Seth-Rem said. “I mean, we’re going to drive this into Sin City?”

“People do tend to think Christians are crazy. It could be embarrassing,” Candice said.

“I resent that. I’m a Christian,” Leena said.

“Well, culturally, me too, but I mean, the type of Christians who drive around in Christian busses,” Candice said. “The wacko’s, wanting to gloat over their prideful beliefs that everyone except for them will be eternally tortured.”

“I’m a Buddhist,” Kang said, in a loud declarative way which seemed random and made me laugh.

“But you eat cows?” Seth-Rem stated.

“I can’t help it. My religion made them too delicious, calling them god meat,” Kang joked. “Naw, but wrong religion dude; that’s Hindu’s you’re thinking of.”

“I’m going to start my own religion,” Seth-Rem said. “L. Ron Hubbard style.”

“Yeah, whatever dork,” Candice said. “What about you Alice, what do you think?” she asked, sensing I was drifting further into my cowering outside observer mode rather than being a group participator which the bucket of soap water poured over my head initiated me into, like a baptism.

“Um… I might join. Depends on how many alien deities would be required to worship.”

They laughed. My first joke a success.

“Twelve,” Seth-Rem said. “And then you get to rule your own galaxy.”

“Cool, I’m in,” I joked.

“That’ll be $29.99 per month then,” Seth-Rem joked.

“I mean about dressing up the van,” Candice said to me. “What do you think?”

I shrugged. “Either way. It’s what’s inside that counts, right?”

Some light laughter again.

“Exactly right,” Leena said.

“Alright everyone, get in,” Seth-Rem said. “Let’s test this thing out.”

“To where?”

“To some sticker store. To cover up that cross. Because we’re pagan heathens,” Seth-Rem said.

“Is there such a place? Such a thing?” Kang asked.

“We could find out. Like a scavenger hunt.”

“A quest!,” Kang said.

“You’re such a nerd,” Leena said.

“Then food?” Candice asked.

“Of course,” Seth-Rem answered. “I feel like some Mongolian Barbecue.”